Je jouis dans les pavésMai '68
by MsTonksLupin
Summary: He starts playing with a thread of his t-shirt. "Hey Jude," he hears himself muttering, without really understanding why, "don't make it bad." He pulls the thread and rips it apart, unconsciously biting his lower lip. "Take a sad song, and make it better…" One moment Grantaire is afraid. And on the next moment Grantaire isn't. "La barricade ferme la rue mais ouvre la voie!" Mai 68


**Hey Jude is my life's theme song. It has been the soundtrack of the most crucial parts of my life, and the motivational feeling is everything I adore. I know that the Beatles sang it on August '68, which is later than May, but this nonsensical one-shot was one of those things that you have to sit down and write in 2AM in order to be able to be in peace again, this thing screams me and it screams impulse therefore I'm so sorry if it is nonsensical or if the concept is ridiculous, I just had to do it and I did it for myself, and well, here it is and I hope you will like it.  
Completely unedited, sorry for all the mistakes, it was all an impulse, I will sit and work through it tomorrow.  
Also excuse the horrid French, I don't even know why I did that.**

Work Text:

It takes a while for him to open his eyes. They are heavy and they tingle, his head feels heavy like a stone, sank in his sweaty pillow. The first thing he sees is the greying ceiling. He brings a hand to rub his forehead, wondering if he was expecting to see something else, instead of the bloody ceiling. He comes to the decision that he would better abandon any attempt to think; his head is throbbing way too much for him to handle.

He throws the blanket off his body and shivers in his boxer shorts and stained t-shirt. The light morning breeze is a quite pleasant touch to the warm May Paris weather, but Grantaire decides to find the world entirely too unfriendly and cold at the moment, and the weather can do nothing but support his decision.

He drags his body in the bathroom, his eyes already immune to the misery of his bedroom and corridor, to the decadence of the socks and boxer shorts on every single paisley armchair, of the broken guitar on the cold bathroom floor beside the toilet, of the paint-stained floor and the smell of alcohol in the air. In a compulsive way, all he needs is to be reminded of his shabbiness and the reasons he was brought to that point.

Because it's true, sometimes he tends to forget the reasons. Sometimes Grantaire just accepts the fact that he popped out of the womb being a drunkard and a cynic, with no actual talent, with no convictions or beliefs, with nothing to rely on but his beloved bottles. Sometimes he forgets, he smiles sarcastically and he accepts. He is mocking life to her face. He is laughing at her, he is showing off the extent of his indifference towards her very gifts. What is there to believe in, what is there to hold onto? A bottle of wine. Some beer. A chat with Bahorel. An amusing observation of Joly in hysterics. And maybe a good wank.

Some other times, with his heart on his throat, he will burst into his apartment, either half drunk or sober, and he will attack his charcoal, as if he's afraid that the box with the colors will change its mind, after being deserted for so long, and jump out of the window. He will grab a couple of sheets and ravish them passionately, he will sketch and draw and paint, trying to hold back his smile of excitement because he's afraid he will jinx it. He needs to do that sometimes, because he happens to remember faintly of who he used to be and what he used to believe in.

It's too late. He has already jinxed it. He doesn't believe in anything. He will stare at the piece of paper with his insides burning and then tear it into a million different pieces and flush them down the toilet, or just shove them under the bed, beside the half empty absinthe bottles.

And then maybe he'll go and find the others. Because his friends he does love. It's just that he can't bring himself to believe. Jehan claims it is the very same thing, to love and to believe. Grantaire knows that his friend is wrong.

And now he stares at his reflection in the dirty mirror and he hates every inch of it, the messy sweaty curls, the unshaven cheeks and the nasty complexion, those insufferably empty ice blue eyes. And then he laughs. He laughs because it's all he can do. It's funny and amusing and pathetic and he feels sorry for himself, he feels sorry because he knows what he has done, he knows that it has been all his fault and that there is nothing he can do about it.

He throws some water on his face, which is cool and relieving because he suddenly feels hot and sweaty again, and he walks out of the bathroom, stumbling on a chair in the process of getting in the kitchen, forgetting to wipe his wet face with a towel.

He starts making some coffee and the rich strong scent immediately makes him feel better, he is much more sober from the moment he smells the brewing beverage, the throbbing of his head has already improved.

He leans back on the new, wooden fridge while waiting for the coffee to get ready and tries not to stare around his little kitchen with the green hand-painted tiles, but he's already done so, and he knows he'll never forget. He will never forget the combination of the two scents: the one of the fine brewing coffee and the other of sleep, of morning and of slight sweet woodruff. He will never forget the way his own arms feel around Enjolras' torso, as he sneaked from behind and threw them around him in that very kitchen. He will never forget the coffee Enjolras made him, which was impossible to compare to every single one of his own efforts to make coffee again. He will never forget the tickling gold locks caused on his cheeks and chin as he buried his face in the other's shoulder, nor will he forget the warm waves of breath on his own shoulder, as they had laid together and tangled their legs in the very miserable bed he had forced himself out of that morning.

His chest aches as he stares at the empty kitchen, and a horrible lump has arrived to stay in his throat, he feels ashamed and ridiculous, as he wishes he could curl on the floor and cry like a baby, but he cannot, and in some extent he is thankful for the fact.

However, he can't help himself collapsing on a chair and hiding his face in his hands.

The coffee is burnt before he knows it. It still is coffee though, and everything about it seems inviting. The color, the scent, the painfully red, hot mug, and he finds himself wrapping his fingers around the porcelain and stare in the liquid.

He takes a sip and it gets him warm. He likes it, even though the heat already is insufferable, he likes the way he feels as if his brain is burning. He takes another sip and leaves the mug on the table.

He rests his back on the fridge again. Who needs a fridge in first place? He was better of without it, he had more space in the kitchen. It had always been Joly who would bring him food anyway.

He starts playing with a thread of his t-shirt. "Hey Jude," he hears himself muttering, without really understanding why, "don't make it bad." He pulls the thread and rips it apart, unconsciously biting his lower lip. "Take a sad song, and make it better…"

Splendid. He's singing in a language he doesn't completely understand. That's fine, he can deal with it. He must breathe and have a shower and get dressed and go on.

Or fuckin' bang his pathetic excuse of a head on the trendy fridge.

He is in the shower and he lets the water fall on his aching, tensed muscles, faintly hoping that it wash all the memories away and set him free, but it's impossible. Enjolras' voice makes his head pound, it's like he can see the blond man in front of him, climbed on the table of the café, wearing his red shirt, giving that speech again, _Etre libre en 1968, c'est participer._ Bullshit. Etre libre, 1968 or 1832 or 162 B.C., is to not have any brains left in your head, because then you create your own chains, God damn it, and that's the most masochistic process human beings put themselves into.

Enjolras has chains of his own. He thinks he is free but his cause entraps his soul more than anything else. If only he understood…

With nothing but a white towel around his waist, Grantaire is laying on the floor, his hair dripping wet, sketching on a piece of paper, dozens of others spread around him, some under his legs and some already having met their fate, buried under the bed. He's crumpling the paper and throws it on the armchair. His head aches and he hates every single line he draws with his pencil. The side of his hand is smudged and he feels like his insides bear a tremendous resemblance to it at the moment. He throws his pencil away, it hits on the window and ends up in the other side of the room.

He lies his head down on the floor, on the drawn sheets. He pulls his naked legs on his chest and curls like a baby on the wood. His fingers are trailing on two woodworm holes near his eyes. "Hey Jude", he sings quietly, "don't be afraid." He rests on his back and places his hands on his chest, while he unconsciously moves his left and right. "You were made to go out and get her…"

It's already afternoon and the room is sucking the air out of his lungs and he needs to get away. He throws on a shirt, grabs his army boots and makes his way out of the bedroom and of the apartment, forgetting to take any money with him. He can sense the tear gas from the moment he sets a foot on the street and his chest tightens. He knows where they would be and he knows equally well that on no account is he getting any near the Quartier Latin.

The sun is burning above his head and lightens his features as he walks, it lightens his eyes even though they don't wish to be lightened. He half closes them irritated, and walks on the pavement with his hands in his pockets, repeating a ritual he had long ago forgotten. "And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain." He stops and stares around. He can hear the voices of the protestors and he knows exactly where not to head to. He turns his back and walks to a park. He ends up on a bench, drinking something unidentified from the flask he's been carrying around in the pocket of his jacket. People pass and go but he doesn't care, alcohol is running in his veins now, feeding his head with unwanted memories even though he drunk in order to get rid of their very presence, memories of his fingers tangled in gold locks, memories of soft whispers in his ear.

And then his mind starts creating images in its own will, images of policemen and tear gas and Molotov bombs, images of people screaming and crying, he can imagine Bahorel's fury and enthusiasm as well as the blood dripping from his nose, he can imagine Courfeyrac shouting slogans in his expensive flared jeans and round sunglasses, he can feel Joly's worry as his eyes search for Bossuet and Musichetta and he can almost see the girl's two front bigger teeth as her mouth is half opened, trying to calm down because she worries, trying to breathe because the air is full of tear gas. And then Feuilly will be there, holding the placards with Jehan who will be wearing soft colors and will probably have his camera because such what would such historical moments be without an artistic conception, even if you happen to be risking your life? And he can imagine the policemen getting nearer, and they have guns, and Combeferre and Enjolras are shouting their lungs out, they are shouting for freedom and equality. And they're bleeding, but marble shouldn't bleed…

Grantaire knows he must stop drinking because every single thought pains his head, and he wants to stop because he might end up throwing up behind a tree, which is not noble at all. His head hurts and his insides burn. His friends are ready to be slaughtered and he is there, drinking as much as he can, while Enjolras might have already started building an old school barricade in the middle of the Quartier Latin.

One moment Grantaire is afraid.

And on the next moment Grantaire isn't.

The sun is setting as he stands up and walks, feeling his heart beating like a drum in his ears. He walks quickly and the thump of his boots on the pavement synchronizes to the pounding in his chest. The sun is setting but there is still light and he feels warm, his palms are clammy and he's excited, he walks to the Quartier Latin, starting to meet more and more people on his way, people with placards, people shouting slogans, people breaking the pavement to use the stones for weapons or to build a barricade.

People are singing.

It would only be impossible to find his friends between all those students and workers, but it's like he knows exactly where to go, and from one minute to the other, he sees Jehan shouting in his hippie shirt. "Plus je fais l'amour, plus j'ai envie de faire la révolution. Plus je fais la révolution, plus j'ai envie de faire l'amour!" and he quickly approaches them. Combeferre is the first to see him and a smile appears on his face. Courfeyrac is applauding and continuing his song. But Grantaire only has eyes for his leader, who, with the help of many others, has started building the barricade. "La barricade ferme la rue mais ouvre la voie!"

He grabs a stone and rushes to help. Enjolras notices him and raises his piercing eyes.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fais la?" he asks, staring at the drunkard coldly, and the world stops turning for a while.

"Je suis venu pour t'aider." He replies.

Enjolras remains quiet, his eyes carefully examining Grantaire's face

"Ils chantent, R." Enjolras finally says, his face softening, as he makes a step closer to the other man. "Entends-tu le chant joyeux?"

_So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin,_  
_You're waiting for someone to perform with._  
_And don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do,_  
_The movement you need is on your shoulder._

"Je chante aussi, Julien." Breathes Grantaire.

"Tu penses?" Enjolras is so close Grantaire can feel his breath brush on his face. His voice is so low that no one else but him can hear it. "Je penses a toi." He says, his heart ready to explode off his chest. The world around keeps shouting and the police is here and Bahorel is fighting and Feuilly is carrying stones but nothing matters, the world has forgotten how to turn, and Enjolras is dressed in red, and the night shouldn't fall because the darkness will attempt to cover such beauty and such glory.

"Permets-tu?" whispers Grantaire.

Enjolras is holding his hand.

It is the 10th of May, 1968, and they are ready.


End file.
